Bad Timing
by honus47
Summary: A bit of Deeks's past comes back to haunt him.


Bad Timing

Summary: A bit of Deeks's past comes back to haunt him.

A/N: As always, this little tale was edited and reviewed by Nherbie. Y'all should read her writings. They're fantastic!

A/N 2: This one-shot is rather long. There was no place I could break it without hurting the story. So, forgive me.

A/N 3: While this story line was mine, my husband decided to help me with it and embellished the crap out of it. But, he's 74 so I'm going to cut him some slack. THIS time . . .

My cell-phone rang. It was just a small, innocuous thing that had been sitting there on my desk, black and quiet all morning, unlisted, unknown to only a select few. So imagine my surprise when it started ringing. I picked it up and said, "Go for Deeks. "

When I heard his first word, I felt a chill work its way across my shoulders. He said; "Hi, Deeks." His tone was as pleasant as could be and my thoughts turned to shortly being away from Kensi on some damn undercover assignment.

I took another deep, easy breath. Just thinking what this was going to be about and hoping it wasn't an undercover op. "Hi, Lt Bates."

He paused a moment and said, "Somebody shot Ernesto Gonzales."

Softly, I muttered, "Damn." Three sets of agent's eyes swiveled up to look at me.

Lt. Bates knew what I was thinking and let me take my time. My old buddy Ernie had helped me bring down the Oregănos cartel a few years ago. Ernesto Gonzales had become a wild-ass bum after helping me bring down the cartel, and now it appears he was almost dead.

"What happened, Lt. Bates?"

"Somebody broke in to his place and shot him in the stomach."

"You know who?"

"Not yet. We may have a suspect though."

"Anyone I know?"

"Yeah." There was a pause before he continued. "You shot his brother, Ricardo."

I said something unintelligible. "How is he?"

"Dying. He wants to see you."

"I'll be there." I disconnected the call, silently got up, walked to my locker and took out my leather jacket and personal gun. Then locked my LAPD badge, ID, and service weapon in my desk, gave Kensi a quick peck on the cheek, and left after telling her about the phone call I had just received.

Lt. Bates had made it easy for me and had a detective I recognized meet me at Pacific Beach Memorial Hospital who took me up to the room.

I opened the room door, went in and closed the door behind me. The room smelled like death. It filled the air in the room. The only light came from all the machines hooked up to him, monitoring his faltering vitals. When my eyes adjusted to the darkened room, I saw him laying under the sheet. Quietly, I walked over and stood beside the bed, looking down at him, at the bandage that hid the hole in him that let his life leak out. The doctors had done what they could, but the damage was too extensive. His breathing was shallow, his pain taken away by hospital pain killers. While I was trying to figure out a way to wake him up, he seemed to sense he was not alone, and with an effort his eyes opened, looking around the room, and then centered on me. "You made it, huh?"

"Sure, for you amigo. Why didn't you ask for Lt. Bates?"

"He's not a snake like you are."

"Come on . . . " I started to say, but he cut me off with a shake of his head.

"Gentry . . . you're a mean SOB. You're . . . nasty. You do the damnedest things. Lt Bates's is not like you. Hell, no one is like you. I need Max Gentry. Not a civilized cop."

"I'm not that guy anymore."

"Uh-huh." He coughed lightly and his face twitched with the pain. My eyes were almost fully adjusted to the darkness of the room and I could see him better. The last few years hadn't been good to him at all since the fall of the cartel and the final insult of getting shot had really aged him. There was a clock ticking in his head with each minute taking him closer to the end. He looked hard to see me again, and finally found my eyes. "Max . . . remember Juan Angelo?"

I thought he was drifting back along memory lane. Juan Angelo had been dead for a few years. At the age of 90-something he had died in peace in his Northern California home, surrounded by his family. His other family was a lot bigger, spread out over the West Coast domain the man called his own.

"Sure, Ernie. What about him?" His expression looked strained and there was shame in his eyes.

There was a long pause before he said, "I worked for him, Max."

It was hard to believe. "Ernie," I asked him, "What kind of work would you do for the cartel? LAPD took it down. You weren't any good with a gun. You never messed around in illegal business."

He held his hand up, and I stopped talking. "It was . . . a different . . . kind of business. Do you know . . . what the yearly take . . . of the . . ." he groped for the words and said, "cartel . . . added up to?"

"It's a pile of money I would think." I said.

"Max," he said very solemnly, "you haven't got the slightest idea."

"What are you getting at, amigo?" His chest rose under the sheet while he took several deep breaths, his eyes closing until the pain had calmed down. When he looked up his mouth worked a bit. "Max, remember when the young guys tried to take over . . . the family business?"

"But they didn't make it, Ernie."

"No . . . not then." He sucked in another big lungful of air. "But it made Don Angelo think."

"What are you talking about, Ernie?" Once again, he gave out a grunt, this time of satisfaction. "He . . . was getting screwed . . . by his kids. The ones he put through college. The ones he . . . figured to take over the business . . . when he handed it over."

"Angelo wasn't that dumb," I interrupted.

"Computers," Ernie said. "Computers! They learned . . . how to use them . . . in school. They didn't want to wait until they were handed the family business. They wanted it now . . . and were going to get it. Now shut up and don't talk until I'm finished."

"I don't like it when somebody tells me to shut up," I growled. Then added, "But now I'll shut up."

"OK. Stay that way . . . and listen. Don Angelo . . . rarely touched his money. He might spend some of it, but he never looked like he had a dime. Lousy apartments, his wife did the cleaning and cooking. The kids . . . the bad ones . . . didn't know where the boss kept it." He was starting to breathe with an unnatural rhythm and I didn't like it, but there was no way to stop him now. "That was when . . . they got hold of me."

A little red light flashed on the panel behind his head. It stayed on about two seconds, then went off. Nobody came in, so I ignored it.

He said, "Nobody really knows . . . how he did it. Cash and valuables got moved by trucks with different people so that no one knew where it came from or where it was going. Except the last crew."

"What happened to them?"

"Like the old pirate days Max. Their skeletons are most likely still there. When their job . . . was done . . . so were they." He rolled his eyes up to mine again. "Now shut up . . . OK?"

I nodded and he started again.

"All his money . . . was in paper. He cashed in everything he had and turned it into dollars. He pulled out all of his numbered accounts in Switzerland, the Bahamas, the Caymans. The cash flow was still coming in from drugs and all that . . . crap, you know?"

I nodded again. He continued. "That's what fooled . . . the young bucks. The walking . . . walking-around money was there, but the capital had disappeared."

"When did they find out?"

"Maybe a year ago. The computers came up with it. At first they . . . they thought it was . . . like a mistake. When the machines said no way, then they . . . thought they were being ripped off. All those hotshots went nuts."

He made sense. There had been unrest in the top of the cartel a couple of years back.

Ernie said, "The boss was getting old by then. When he died off . . . it . . . seemed natural. You know, strokes and heart attacks, falls down stairs all that shit that happens to old people."

"I remember that." I looked straight down at Ernie, and he read my thoughts perfectly.

"I was . . . working for Juan Espinosa, Max. Espinosa . . . was in charge. He moved faster than the kids . . . he kept ahead of everybody, that guy."

"Did he move right in when Don Angelo died?" I asked him.

"Hell, Max, he didn't . . . just die. He was killed. And when Espinosa goes, there won't be any more bosses . . . just the young phonies yelling at each other because their inheritance has disappeared. Poof! Just . . . like that." He tried to snap his fingers but didn't have the strength.

"Ernie, doesn't Espinosa know where this money is?"

"He thinks he does."

"But somebody faked him out?"

"Me, Max," Ernie told me. "I faked . . . him out. I disguised everything." Suddenly sheer, raw pain flashed across his face and his back arched under the covers. He was beginning to look at his own death now.

"How much time do ya think I have left Max?"

I said, "I don't know Ernie."

His smile was brief and there was a small glow of relief on his face. "Listen to me," he said. "What would you do . . . if you had . . . $10 Billion?"

"Buy a new car, maybe buy the Twinkie factory for a friend of mine." I told him while thinking of Kensi.

"I said . . . $10 Billion, Max." His eyes were clear now and looking hard into mine.

Softly, I said, "Only a small government has that kind of money, Ernie."

"That's right," he agreed. "It's a government all right. It's got citizens and taxes and soldiers and more money than anyone . . . can imagine."

When I frowned at him he knew I had gotten the message. He didn't want me to speak because he had more to say and no time to say it. "They left $10 billion, Max. I know where it is. They don't." Before I could speak, I saw the spark begin to fade from his eyes. His voice was suddenly soft, and I leaned forward to hear him better. He said, "You can . . . find out . . . where it is." His eyes never closed, they just filmed over . . . and just like that he was gone.

I walked into the mission and headed to the bullpen to find Kensi sitting behind her desk, chin propped in her hands, watching me.

I said, "Am I supposed to say good afternoon or kiss you?"

She gave me a sassy little smile and pointed at the conference rooms upstairs. "Lt. Bates is here."

I went over and kissed the top of her head before I went upstairs. Lt. Bates was comfortably sitting in Nate's big office chair, his feet up on a half-opened desk drawer, like he owned the place.

" You going to tell me how you did with Ernie?"

I pulled a chair away from the wall and sat down. "He died practically in my arms, L.T. Didn't he have anybody else?"

"You know Ernie. He was a loner. I wondered why he didn't call for me."

I let a few seconds pass, then said, "You really want to know?"

He sat up in the chair and squinted at me. "Sure I do!" he said.

"Ernie thought you were too soft."

"For what?"

"To do what has to be done," I said. I sat there and studied my boss. Lt. Bates head of the LAPD under-cover division. Smart, streetwise, college educated, ex-military, well trained in the ways of detection. Tough, but not killing tough. He still had a conscience, and that's what Ernie had meant. There was no way I could tell him what Ernie had told me.

"He wants you to take care of the guy who shot him," he said flatly.

"Something like that," I replied.

"There's a lot of talk on the street over who wiped out Augusta Duennas, Deeks."

"You know I shot that ass-hole. I took him out with one shot right between the eyes."

"That's what I figured," L.T. told me, "but if I were you, I'd keep it to myself."

"By the way," I said, "How big a bundle would a million bucks in hundreds make?"

He looked at me like I was kidding, but my eyes said I wasn't.

"A big carton full. Clothes-drier size."

"Then a billion would take a thousand cartons like that."

L.T. was puzzled now. "Yeah, why?"

"Then how big a place would you need to store 10,000 cartons?"

"How about a great big warehouse?"

"That's what I figured." I grinned at him and said, "What would you do with a bundle that big, Lt Bates.?"

"Buy a new car," he growled.

"That's what I thought," I said.

Several days later, Lt. Bates, and Kensi, and I, took her SRX to Richmond's funeral parlor and saw Ernesto Gonzales neatly lettered on a mahogany sign with an arrow pointing to the chapel on the left. The silence was thick, and I was expecting to find the place empty, but there must have been two dozen people there. Four of them were gathered around a waist-high display table that held a curved urn. I knew what that was. It was all that remained of Ernie. The guy looking at me, looked like he was wishing it was me instead. He was almost as tall as I was, and from the way his $2000 suit fit, you knew he worked out on a daily basis and most likely jogged 50 miles a week. He had the good looks of a male model and the composure of a Harvard graduate, but under that high-priced facade he was a street punk named Espinosa, the younger one. I walked over. We had never met, but we didn't need an introduction. I said, "Hello. Have you come to pay your respects?"

Under his coat his muscles tightened and his eyes measured me. He was like an animal, the young alpha male in the prime of life who now wanted to challenge Max Gentry.

I played the Max Gentry part perfectly. I growled, "You haven't answered my question."

His eyes flicked around. "Ernie worked for my father."

"I know that." I got a frown again, strangely concerned this time.

"And how do you know him?"

"We ran in the same circles together. So did that cop over there." He didn't have to look. He knew who I meant. Lt. Bates was looking right at us. He got that twitch again and I knew the young Espinosa had lost his try at intimidating me. But there would be another time, and the young stud would hope to get me out of the picture.

At the display table, I got a close look at Ernie's final resting place. It was a dull metal urn, modestly decorated at the top and bottom, with a plaque in the middle engraved with gold lettering. His name, age and birthplace were at the top. A series of numbers ran underneath the engraving.

The funeral director walked up to me and asked, "Can I see you a moment, Mr. Gentry?"

I nodded and followed him to the far side of the room. He stood there, wondering how he should explain his situation. "When Mr. Gonzales purchased our services, he asked that you see to his remains."

"Be glad to," I told him. "What did he want done with them?"

"He said he had a son named Marvin, and he wanted you to deliver his ashes in the urn to the boy."

"I never knew about a kid. Well . . . ," I said to him, "if that's what he wanted, that's what he gets. I sure owe him that much."

He looked at his watch. Half the crowd had signed the register and already left. The others would be out in a few minutes. "I'll box the urn for you and you can pick it up in my office."

As we waited, I said to Kensi, "Tomorrow, I'm going to ask the wonder twins to run down any and all information on Ernie."

"What are they looking for?"

"His kid. He's supposed to have a son. He must have had him very early in life as Ernie is…was…only eight years older than I am. All that information should be recorded. "

The three of us left the parlor with Ernie in my arms, packed in a box.

The next day, no more news had turned up and I was ready to get lunch when Kensi came down from ops. "What did Ernie tell you?" she asked me shrewdly.

"10 billion dollars is stashed somewhere." It was the first time I had mentioned the numbers to her and she opened her mouth in disbelief.

"Deeks... you said billion. Each billion is a thousand million."

"I think Ernie wanted to tell me where it is, but all he said was that he had changed the signs so nobody could find it."

"Why did he call you in, Deeks?"

Now I grinned real big. "Because I'm not nobody."

"And what do you do with it after you find it?"

"Buy a new car. Hell, you can have some. New dress, shoes, things like that. Maybe buy the Twinkie factory."

"Get serious." Kensi told me but then smiled to herself thinking of owning the Twinkie factory and all that golden goodness.

"I am," I said. "Now, what about Ernie's history? Did the wonder twins find anything?"

"Oh, they found him, all right." She handed me a piece of paper. I looked at the address in L.A. and put the paper on my desk. "We still have a problem, Princess."

She waited for me to say it.

"What were those numbers on the urn below his birth date?"

"Maybe . . . " she searched for the name, "Marvin can tell you."

Kensi drove to the decrepit old building where Marvin lived. The place had a common entrance that had eight mailboxes, a single overhead light bulb, and the smell of all different types of cooking. The slots beneath the mailboxes held names, except for one, and since Gonzales wasn't on any of the others, the blank one had to be Marvin's. I pushed the button and tried the door. It swung open with no trouble. Soft TV voices overlapped and somewhere a radio was tuned in to a techno station that thumped out a monotonous beat that made Kensi smile. Behind me, Kensi closed the door. To our left was a wooden staircase leading to the second level. A door creaked open, feet thumped across the floorboards and a male voice yelled down over the banister, "Yeah, whatchya want?"

"Marvin?"

There was a moment's hesitation before he answered, "Who wants to know?"

But by then I was up the stairs and his head jerked around, not knowing whether to stand there or duck back into his room. "I'm Max Gentry, Marvin. I was a friend of your fathers."

"He's dead."

Just then he noticed Kensi and she took his breath away long enough for him to lose his hostile attitude.

I said, "You mind inviting us inside?"

He glanced at me a few seconds, frowned, then stared at Kensi long enough to change his mind and nod toward the door. I waited for him to go in first and followed him closely. Then I waved at Kensi to come in and closed the door.

As I expected, it was a nothing place. One room with a futon that doubled as a sofa, a two-burner stove, small sink and a narrow, old-fashioned refrigerator that took up a corner. The kitchen table had two wooden chairs, and an old lawn chair was right in front of a fairly new TV that was on the floor. But it was clean. No dirty dishes, no dust accumulation, no pile of clothes. The only lingering smell was that of antiseptic soap.

He caught my thoughts and said, "I'm poor but neat, Mr. Gentry." His eyes shifted to Kensi, noticing her eyes shrewdly surveying his place, and he added, "No woman here, lady. It's just something I picked up in the Navy."

"The lady is my world," I told him. "Her name is Kensi."

No surprise showed in his expression. He nodded toward me and said, "The paper had a picture of you at the funeral."

"Why weren't you there, Marvin?"

He shrugged. "What good would that have done?"

"What harm would it have done?" I responded quickly. When he didn't answer, I asked. "Marvin, when was the last time you saw your father?"

"Before I went in the Navy. We hardly kept in touch. There were a couple of letters and a card that gave me his new address." Sadness seemed to touch his eyes and he looked directly at me. "There weren't many people that even knew he had a kid. Him and my mom were in high school when she got pregnant with me. Mom died giving birth and dad did what he could for me but . . . What did my dad leave me, Mr. Gentry?"

"An urn full of ashes, what did you expect?"

"Don't give me that shit. You didn't come all the way down here to tell me that. He left you something and you need me to get it."

"I need you like I need a hole in the head," I said. I took out a notepad and wrote down a name and address, then handed it to him. "His ashes are here. Do you want them?"

He studied me again, his teeth gnawing at his lips. "You said you knew my father?"

"That's right."

"How the hell did he get in the cartel? Damn, that doesn't make sense. All the old man ever wanted was to get out on the ocean, not get into a damn cartel."

"He ever do that?"

"All he ever did was sit in that old boat of his sitting in the marina."

That was something Ernie had never mentioned to us. "What kind of boat?" I asked him. "Where did he keep it?"

"An old 35' Carver, in the Cabrillo marina a few miles south of San Pedro near Catalina."

Marvin rubbed his hands over his face, then ran his fingers through his hair. "Do you want anything else?" he asked.

"Would you give it to me if I did?"

"Depends."

I gave him Max's cell phone number. "Just one thing, Marvin."

"Yeah?"

"Your father was killed for a reason. Whoever did it might think he gave information to you and . . ."

"He didn't tell me nothing!"

"Maybe not Marvin, but whoever killed your dad may think he did. So, the quicker we get the killer, the longer you'll have to live. Give it a thought, kid."

The traffic flow on the 405 was loose and fast, so we got back to the mission early.

I was on my way to see Lorenzo Espinosa, and the odds were going to be on his side. Espinosa was getting old, but the game stayed the same. I got out my Eagle, pulled the clip out and checked it and then put it back in the small of my back. All I could hope for was that the idiots Espinosa kept around him had good memories and better imaginations.

The local club was straight out of an old television movie, with building blocks of opaque glass to let in light on the main floor while keeping anybody from seeing in. The only thing different about the area was that graffiti artists had not sprayed any of the buildings. I got out of my car half a block away and let them see me walk up to the door. There were two bouncers outside the door who came out of the same TV show as the building. For a few seconds it looked like they were going to move right in on me. Then one of the bouncers whispered something, and the other seemed puzzled and his face paled. You don't try to be nice to guys like this. I said, "Go tell your boss I want to talk with him."

"He ain't here," the fat one said.

"Want me to shoot the lock off?" I didn't make it sound like a joke.

The skinny one said, "You got a big mouth, mister."

"I got a big name too. It's Max Gentry. Now move your ass and do what your buddy told you to do."

"You're not coming in here wearing a gun Gentry."

I didn't get to say anything. The dark figure leaning over the banister upstairs yelled down in his softly accented voice and said, "What's going on down there?"

"It's Max Gentry," I called back. "If you don't want to talk with me, I'll leave. If you want trouble, I'll shoot the hell out of your guys here and the cops can mop up the mess." I think the dialogue came out of that TV movie too.

"He's got a gun on him, Mr. Espinosa," the skinny punk yelled.

"In his hand?"

"No. It's under his shirt in back."

Espinosa was like a cat. His curiosity was gonna kill him some day. He didn't even wait a second before he said, "He's always got a gun. Let him up, unless you want to shoot it out down there."

Espinosa was a player. When I got to the top of the stairs, he nodded for me to follow him, and he walked in front of me as if it were all one big party. He pushed open a door to an office but didn't go through. I made sure the door flattened against the wall, indicating nobody was behind it, visually scanned the area, then stepped in and edged along the wall to a chair in front of Espinosa's desk. His expression suggested he appreciated my cautiousness. "Are you nervous, Mr. Gentry?"

"Just careful."

"You take big chances."

"Not really."

"Oh?"

"I could have blown those goons you have downstairs right out of their socks if they had tried to pull their guns."

"You could have lost."

For 30 seconds I stood there staring at him, then moved around the chair and sat down. "Go ahead and ask it." I said.

Espinosa played his role. He pulled his padded leather desk chair back on its rollers, sat down easily and folded his hands in his lap. When he was ready his eyes met mine and he said, "Did you kill my son Mr. Gentry?"

There was no waiting time here either. "I shot him right in the head, Mr. Espinosa. He was about to shoot me in the face when I squeezed a .50 into his head. You're damn right I shot him, and if you have any more like him who want to try it, I'll do the same thing again."

I didn't know what to expect, certainly not the look of calm acceptance he wore. He seemed to be remembering the details of that night, and when all the pieces fit into the puzzle, he seemed oddly satisfied. "I do not blame you, Mr. Gentry," he told me quietly. "He's dead now and that is that. If you want something from me, then ask it."

"I want who killed Ernesto Gonzales."

"Ernie was a nice man." he said, the accent coming back, showing more emotion than he had at the discussion about the death of his own son.

"Yeah, I know."

"Then why did he die, Mr. Gentry?"

"Somebody thought he knew more than he should."

"What could he know?"

"He mentioned trouble in your organization, Mr. Espinosa."

"There is no trouble. Everything has been legal for years."

"Screw the legalities. It's the distribution of wealth that causes a ruckus."

"Do you think I look like a rich man, Mr. Gentry?"

"Cut the shit, Espinosa." I pushed out of the chair. "All I want is the guy who killed Ernie. This time it isn't just me. Lt. Bates is part of this man hunt, and he's got the LAPD behind him."

"Somehow I think you have a person in mind," Espinosa said.

I started toward the door, then turned and said, "I'd keep a close watch on your boy Ugo. He hasn't got the expertise the rest of us have."

Espinosa nodded, but a frown had creased his forehead and I knew he was trying to figure out the hidden meaning to my words.

Willie the Actor was a skinny little guy with a strange, kidlike voice, a deep love for any kind of booze and no money at all. The job I held out for him was easy and meant a week in a bar, _if_ he could handle his money right. It took a whole morning to get the scene staged, and when I was sure he had it, we got into my car, went to a certain address where he made a call from my phone. He didn't know who he was talking to, but he said his lines fast and clearly, sounding like a 12-year-old street kid half out of breath and real excited. He didn't even wait for the person on the other end to answer him. He said, "Ugo... Ugo... that you? You know that place where you guys meet? Some guy is watching it. I think he's gonna bust in there. You better get over here, Ugo." He stopped a moment and I could hear shouting in the phone. Then he said, sounding suddenly scared. "Gee, he's lookin' over this way. I gotta go."

When he hung up I handed him his pay, let him get out of sight around the corner and went back to my car. I didn't have to wait very long. Ugo Espinosa came out of the garage under his house in a dark blue Buick and took off, squealing his tires. I followed him without any problems. In LA there are cars all over the city that look just like mine. Twice I rode right alongside him, and I got a good look at his pissed off face. We got to a part of Los Angeles where new businesses had started renovating dilapidated old areas. There was room at the curb for Ugo's car, so he parked and hopped out. I parked my car down the block and saw him look up and down the street, then enter a narrow alley between two buildings and disappear. The door was a heavy wooden leftover from a different century. I backed off and waited inside the lobby of a publishing firm until I saw him step back out, his face tight with anger. He looked around, shook his head and went back to his car, probably silently cursing the "kid" who passed on a bad tip to him, and drove off.

The lock was as easy to pick, and I closed the door behind me, locking it again behind me. A pile of empty cardboard boxes and assorted trash blocked the way, so I used my tools on the lock in the door to my left. Enough light came in from the old window to let me see what I was doing, and in two minutes I was inside. Here I could use the lights. The windows were completely blacked out so that whatever was done here was done in secret. The tables were plywood on sawhorses, wooden crates were used for chairs and cardboard boxes were the containers for all the paper that ran through the computers and copiers that lined the room. There was a fortune in electronics and exotic machinery in the room. There was nothing I could understand. Twice, I made a circuit of the room, poking into anything that might contain what I wanted. Nothing. I was all set to leave when I heard the stairs outside creak. I flipped the lights off, then squeezed behind a four-drawer filing cabinet just before a key went into the lock and the door opened. The .357 came in first, with Ugo right behind it. I was in a darkened corner and didn't move, so his eyes went past the cabinets. I stayed as quiet as I could. I could hear his footsteps. When he was right up to the cabinet he stopped. He saw the possible area, the only place in the room that could conceal a person, and he was about to earn his bones once more.

It was too bad he was right-handed. Had he shifted the.357 to his other hand and come around the corner, he would have had me. But he led with a stiff right arm and before he knew what had happened I had twisted the gun out of his fingers, spun him around and held the muzzle of his own gun to the back of his neck. I could smell the fear that oozed out of him and knew when he wet his pants. I felt his body begin to twitch. Ugo Espinosa was looking down his own tunnel of death.

I said, "So, your inheritance is down the drain. Even the computer whiz kids don't know where it went. No transactions, no deposits just a big nothing." I let my words sink in. "But I'm going to find it, Ugo, baby." I eased the gun away from Ugo's skin and let it run down his back, pressing against his spine. His mind was wondering if he'd feel the shot, not knowing whether or not to hope he'd die fast but realizing that if anything took out his spinal cord he was going to be strapped in a wheelchair for a long time. No parties, no ladies, no booze, and just maybe somebody he'd kicked around might come up and put a bullet right in his face where he could see it coming. Before he could faint on me I belted him in the head with his gun and let him drop. The blood from the gash above his temple made a puddle on the floor. I stuck Ugo's.357 in my belt. Bates could do a ballistics check and maybe get some brownie points if it had been in any prior criminal cases.

Downstairs, Ugo's Buick was back at the curb, and I looked at the license plate. The first three numbers were 911 and I had to laugh.

Kensi and I headed for the 405. When we passed through Medford, I pinpointed the marina where Ernesto Gonzales had kept his boat. The marina was still there, it had a pier and docking facilities for half a dozen boats. Two well-used sailboats were still in the slips. A sign outside a small house read JAMES BLEDSOE, PROP. The porch was apparently the office, and the living quarters were behind it. I knocked and waited until an old guy munching on an apple came hobbling out, his knobby knees sticking out of stained shorts. "You don't look like boat people," he said.

"We're not."

It didn't surprise him at all. He sat down on a box and laced his fingers behind his head. "You don't want to rent a boat, do you?"

"Not today."

"Didn't think so."

"Mr. Bledsoe, did you know Ernesto Gonzales?"

His eyes brightened and he took his hands down, leaning on his knees. "Sure did. We had a lot of good times together. Haven't seen him for a few years."

"He's dead, Mr. Bledsoe."

"Damn," he said, frowning. "What happened?"

"He was murdered, but that's kind of an old story now. I understand he had a boat here."

"It's still here," he said. "She's all dried out and needs a lot of work on her, but if you got a few months and some money, it can be done."

"I'd just like to see it."

"Pretty dirty out there."

"That's OK."

And he was right. The area held three antique boats with open seams, glass falling out of the frames and rust stains leaking from all the exposed metal parts. Chocks held Ernie's boat upright, streamers of cobwebs and layers of dust making it look like the Flying Dutchman. The hatch cover was off and candy wrappers were scattered around.

"Kids," Bledsoe explained. "They come in and play. I can't keep them out."

I pointed to a ladder that ran up the side. "Mind if I look around?"

"Be my guest."

The ladder was handmade but pretty solid so I went up slowly, threw a leg over the rail and got on the deck, brushing the cobwebs out of my face. The kids had broken into the small cabin and pulled out anything that would come loose. Light fixtures had been smashed, and dried turds made a mess in the ceramic head. The wheel in the cabin was intact, but behind it were only holes where instruments had been screwed into the mahogany. Old Ernie would have turned green if he could see his boat now. I shook my head in disgust and looked over the mahogany dashboard where the kids had scratched their names. I had almost turned away when I saw something. Not a scrawl or a scratch, but eight numbers carefully inscribed with an awl so they couldn't be rubbed out. They were the same eight numbers as on Ernie's urn. Damn, those weren't ID digits, they were latitude and longitude markers. I climbed down, brushed myself off and told Bledsoe there wasn't much we could do but we'd let him know. On the way back to the mission, I stopped at a survey outfit. The guy was young and friendly, glad to see somebody come into the shop.

When I showed him the numbers he looked up something in a book, then waved us to a wall map. "That wasn't hard," he said.

"You know the place?"

"Sure. Everybody does. There was an old bootlegger ran an operation out there during Prohibition. Not much left up there now. The big house rotted out a long time ago and some old caretaker lives in an outbuilding. Once in a while he cuts some choice slate out of there. You looking to buy the place?"

"It's possible."

Driving there wasn't that simple. After four wrong turns we found the narrow, single-lane dirt road that twisted and turned through the trees toward the rise of the San Bernardino Mountains of California. We went around a turn and there were no more trees, just a big, empty field on the edge of an overpowering mountainside with three old buildings nestling in the shadows. The single roadway branched out in five different directions, all but one in total disrepair, so I stayed on the passable road. It brought us to a weather-worn building that still looked livable. There was a brick chimney running up the side, and a shimmer of heat distortion against the clouds, so I knew someone was there.

Rather than take a chance on stirring some irritable old mountaineer waving a shotgun, I beeped the horn and waited. The screen door with paint so thick you couldn't see through it, whipped open and the mountaineer was there, all right, old, but not at all irritable. "Y'all step down and come right in," he yelled. His voice was crackly but happy. "Saw you comin' a mile away and put on coffee." Kensi slid out and introduced herself. "You 're sure a looker," the old man said. "I'm just Slateman. Got a real name, but nobody calls me that." He took my hand too, shook it and squinted up at me.

"What we want to do is see the old bootleg operation."

"Better get your cameras then."

For a minute I felt stupid, but Kensi winked at me and went back to the car. She came back with a small 35mm camera. Slateman got an oversize flashlight with a strap that slung over one shoulder, and he led us through the house to the back door. We followed a path to a ridge of bushes, then around them to where the ground went up and blended into the mountain behind it. When Slateman pointed, we saw the cleft in the side of the hill. He pulled a rack of bushes aside and there was an opening a man on horseback could go through. "Used to have a big, wooden barn door here," Slateman explained. "Couldn't see it, of course. Always kept it covered with real growth. A truck could go in and out easy."

He led the way, flicking on his light, and we stayed close behind. It was a great natural cave, cool and dry. The dirt under our feet was packed. The cave was so big that we could see only one wall to our left.

Kensi's voice had a quaver to it. "Any bats?"

"No bats," Slateman reassured her. "Some caves have 'em, but this one don't. Never could figure out why."

We walked until we reached the edge of the space and followed the curve of the walls around it. Even after all these years, you could tell what had been there. Old tools and the remains of a truck seat were like artifacts in an antique shop. At the back side we had to circle around a heap of boulders Slateman said had come down from the wall and overhead years ago. He flashed the light above us to make sure we were still safe. Kensi kept popping pictures until we had completed the tour and were back at the entrance. "Too bad Prohibition went out of style." I remarked.

Slateman chuckled, and Kensi and I looked at each other. It was just a big, empty cave, full of dust and memories and a little old guy glad to have some city slickers visit him. Kensi shot some footage around the property. We told Slateman so long, and started down the single-lane road.

We turned south on the main highway and stopped at the first diner we came to, went in and ordered up sausages and pancakes with plenty of real maple syrup and mugs of steaming coffee. Halfway through the pancakes Kensi said, "What did we miss, Deeks?"

I shook my head in annoyance. "Ernie went through a lot of trouble to plant those numbers. He wanted me to find them and locate the spot. OK, I did both."

Kensi sat there pensively a minute or so, idly tapping her teeth with a thumbnail. "Deeks . . . Espinosa is a pretty hotheaded guy, isn't he?"

"Yeah, when he was young."

"Then how come he's not doing anything? How come he hasn't sent anybody out to put a hit on you? You challenged Ugo, he knows your connection with Ernie - yet he lets you alone."

"Damn, Kensi, you talk just like a street cop."

"I carry a gun, too. Now tell me, Deeks."

"He's waiting to see how far I get." When we got back to the 405, I pulled into the right lane and turned onto the ramp heading north.

Kensi's head jerked around, surprised. "Where are you going, Deeks?"

"Back to Slateman's place."

Kensi said, "What's the matter?"

"Remember Slateman telling us he spotted the car a mile away?"

"So?"

"The bootlegger probably cut a see-through opening in the trees."

"What difference does that make?"

"I don't like gimmicks, princess."

We hadn't gone far when she held out her hand and said, "Stop!"

I hit the brakes quickly, got out of the car and walked around the front of it. Kensi had spotted it just in time. Running straight as an arrow up the side of the mountain was a path through the tree line. The brush had grown head high, but the line of sight was perfect. Anybody up there could spot movement on the road below. A car driving past would never notice that strip of emptiness, and a beautiful ambush would be waiting for him above unless he had a prearranged signal set up.

Very slowly I drove past the opening. It would be movement that attracted the eyes, and at my pace nobody was going to notice. We passed the wreckage of an old Mack truck, carefully followed the ruts in the road and finally came out on the edge of the estate. We got to the door of Slateman's house and stopped. Nothing happened. The only sounds were those of the wind whistling through the trees. Over to the west was a rumble of faraway thunder. I got out of the car and made Kensi walk behind me. There was something left in the old wood and fieldstone house that seemed to radiate trouble. The door was latched, the fire was out and the place was deserted. There were no dirty dishes, the garbage can was empty and everything seemed to be in place. There was just a feeling of aloneness that shouldn't have been there.

Kensi had taken it in too. She said, "He must have gone to town, Deeks. He didn't leave the stove going."

"That's a long walk, Fern. Come on, let's go see the cave." Slateman had left his heavy-duty flash light on the table. I took it and gave Kensi the one out of the car. Finding the entrance was easy this time. Kensi hesitated a moment until I said, "No bats, remember?"

She took a deep breath and walked in behind me.

We followed the wall, stepping over the junk on the floor, kicking away things that made small tinkling sounds and avoiding the broken remnants of whiskey bottles that had been sampled, drained and dropped by workers getting a few perks for their labors. Three quarters of the way around we came to the place I had wanted to see again. It was the rubble from the roof that had come crashing down many years ago and had been pushed out of the way against the back wall. I ran the light up at the ceiling and saw some scars in the stone, then lowered it to cover the angled pile to my left. Dirt and dust were thick on everything. I crouched down, picked up a handful and let it sift through my fingers. Odd, I thought. The dust wasn't dusty. It had an abrasiveness like fine sand. Kensi's light hit me right in the eyes.

When she realized it was blinding me, she turned it down to the ground and said, "What are you looking for, Deeks?"

I was just about to answer her when another voice said, "Yeah, _Deeks_, tell her what you're looking for."

There was the faintest metallic click and I knew the hammer had gone back on a gun.

Kensi sucked in her breath with an audible gasp.

The voice was young and hard, the kind that had death right behind it and wouldn't wait long at all to kill us.

I said, "It's about time you got here, Ugo." My tone slowed him down an instant. Ugo Espinosa wasn't a fast thinker.

"And why do you suppose that is Gentry? Or is it Deeks?"

"You were following us. And it's Deeks . . . LAPD."

" You're right, I was. I'm not so dumb." He crowed.

My legs were starting to cramp up, but I had to keep him talking. "And now you're in a big, empty cave, Ugo."

"Yeah, but I got you and your woman here and you know where the stuff is."

"You don't see it, do you? What makes you think I can get to it?"

"Don't give me that crap, Deeks. Your buddy Ernie told you."

Kensi's light was still pointing at the floor. Both of us were in the glow of our own flash lights and Ugo was in total darkness. There was no telling by that click whether he had a small gun or a shotgun, but if it was a shotgun he could get us both with the first blast. Without asking, I straightened up from the floor very slowly, my mind racing, trying to line up the best odds, leaving my flashlight on the ground.

Ugo said, "That's right, Deeks. Nice and easy. Now, once more, what were you looking for?"

Now if Kensi would only get the drift of my thoughts. It had to happen all at once and happen right or we were both dead. There was no way I could flash a sign to her, so she had to work on reflexes and that state of mind that exists between partners who have been together so long they can act in total unison.

I said, "I'm not looking, Ugo. I already found it." And as I kicked off the light on the ground, she flipped her switch and we both hit the dirt. Ugo pumped four shotgun rounds in our direction before he knew he hadn't hit either of us. But by then I had my.50 out, the safety off and the hammer back, and I aimed right where I had last seen the muzzle flash and let the deafening roar of the Desert Eagle thunder in the cave. The single bullet smashed into something that clattered but didn't kill, and when I turned the flashlight on, it caught Ugo scrabbling in the dirt for the mangled shotgun my slug had smashed into useless junk.

When he saw what its condition, he let out a wild scream and raised the shotgun like a shield. I fired the Eagle again and the slug smashed into the metal breach of his weapon, which crashed into his chin. He went down with his eyes bugging out and his breathing hoarse with pain. I walked up to the slob and let the light go over him. Blood ran from the cut on his chin, and his body made a few jerks before realization came into his eyes. He didn't know what was coming next, as his eyes finally dropped to the gun in my hand. When I started to raise it, his lips drew back with the crazy desire to kill me, one way or another, while knowing that once I had him looking down that Eagle barrel, it would be the last thing he would ever see.

The dogs found Slateman. His body had been dumped in an old stone-lined cistern not far from the main house. The weathered wooden cover had been dragged back over the hole and loose dirt and rocks had been piled on top of it. There was a huge contusion on the side of his head and blood matted his hair. His body was hung up on an old oil drum that floated down there too. It was a good, safe place to hide a body if nobody was going to look for it. And it would be much better if the body were dead. Slateman hadn't reached that point. The club that Ugo had hit him with had almost but not quite killed him. There was hairline fracturing of his skull, but the prognosis was good. He could still live out his years.

There wouldn't be much use for a commercial outfit to go in and demolish the old buildings. Instead, the power of big government went to work and ripped everything apart looking for clues to those billions of dollars. Any standing structure was flattened, every rock pried loose and inspected, the grounds were raked clean and gone over with metal detectors, and for all that work, all they got was a trash pile of rusted cans, old chains from Mack trucks and debris. A fortune was spent looking for a fortune they didn't find. There was no fortune. I let it all run through my mind. It was a wild-goose chase.. The big cartel boss had blown it all. He probably never told anyone why or how, but it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that he simply didn't want to go down at the hands of his own kids. That's why he dreamed up this wild story. The chance that the money was out there, in a place only he knew, was a kind of…insurance policy. I could only figure that Ugo had taken out Ernie so he wouldn't go for it first. Instead, the moron had taken out the only real 'lead' he had to the fortune he considered his. Unfortunately for him, Ernie just faked it and I was part of that fake. There was no money, there never had been.

The End


End file.
